le you were away in London, he ran young
Richards through the lungs over some triviality, and they say he lies
a-dying."

"Poor lad! poor lad!" says Bentley. "I mind, too, there was Tom
Adams--shot dead in the Miller's Field not above a month ago; and before
that, young Oatlands, and many others besides--"

"Egad," says I, "but I've a great mind to call 'out' the bully myself."

"Pooh!" says Bentley, "the fellow's a past master at either weapon."

"If you will remember, there was a time when I was accounted no mean
performer either, Bentley."

"Pooh!" says Bentley, "leave it to a younger man--myself, for instance."

"Why, there is but a month or two betwixt us," says I.

"Six months and four days," says he in his dogged fashion; "besides," he
went on, argumentatively, "should it come to small-swords, you are a
good six inches shorter in the reach than Raikes; now as for me--"

"You!" says I, "Should it come to pistols you could not help but stop a
bullet with your vast bulk."

Hereupon Bentley must needs set himself to prove that a big man offered
no better target than a more diminutive one, all of which was of course
but the purest folly, as I very plainly showed him, whereat he fell
a-whistling of the song "Lillibuleero" (as is his custom ever, when at
all hipped or put out in any way). And so we presently came to the
cross-roads. Now it has been our custom for the past twelve years to
finish the day with a game of picquet with our old friend Jack Chester,
so that it had become quite an institution, so to speak. What was our
surprise then to see Jack himself upon his black mare, waiting for us
beneath the finger-post. That he was in one of his passions was evident
from the acute angle of his hat and wig, and as we approached we could
hear him swearing to himself.

"Bet you fifty it's his daughter," says Bentley.

"Done!" says I, promptly.

"How now, Jack?" says Bentley, as we shook hands.

"May the Devil anoint me!" growled Jack.

"Belike he will," says Bentley.

"Here's an infernal state of affairs!" says Jack, frowning up the road,
his hat and wig very much over one eye.

"Why, what's to do?" says I.

"Do?" says he, rapping out three oaths in quick succession--"do?--the
devil and all's to do!"

"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley aside.

"Done!" says I.

"To think," groans Jack, blowing out his cheeks and striking himself a
violent blow in the chest, "to think of a pale-faced, pranked-out,
sp